


Rotten

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, sinning is winning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 21:57:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7332046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants something that will last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rotten

Sansa could never stand the pressure to be too much. He could leave reddened flesh in his wake, the imprints of hands and fingertips, but never anything that would bruise. It was difficult for him to adhere to such restraint but then again he had always valued a challenge. 

It was her desire for some view of propriety that insisted on this control, he was certain of that. If the marks he left on her would fade by morning then she could pretend that none of this had happened, that she had not allowed herself to be used in such a fashion. As distasteful as he found this charade to be there was a necessity in it, for he knew she would not allow herself to be lured into bed by him were it not with the condition that no evidence remained. 

Petyr gave her what she needed, despite the way his fingers burned to take, despite the lingering feeling of dissatisfaction that always followed their encounters. Sansa went about the next day as if nothing had occurred, as if he had been nothing, and that feeling dragged behind it a sensory memory that tasted of bile. 

He didn’t speak of it, though he let his displeasure be known in his movements. A sigh when she pushed his hands aside. The digging of fingers into skin whenever he could touch her, hoping he would leave some accidental mark behind. The raking of teeth over neck until her reflexes gave in and they found themselves separated for just a bit, the look in her eyes shadowed as she tried to figure out what she could and could not allow, regarding him as a predator. 

Every night that she sought him out (after the first he always ensured that _she_ came to _him_ ) she gave in a little more, opened herself in a way he knew she would see as foolish. She still came, though, night after night, seeking something intangible that she somehow could only find in his bed. They didn’t really speak on it, didn’t say much about the act itself other than the lurid expressions of _need_ , the more personal thoughts left to choke in their throats. 

But she gave a little more of herself each time, offering herself in bits and pieces. Glimpses that lasted for a fraction in time, brushed touches and moments gained only when she let her guard down for a bit too long. And Petyr held himself back as much as he could, the desperate boy within an embarrassment to the man without. 

The dance continued in this fashion for some time. He only got what she gave and she only gave him the bare minimum, her own needs well-concealed behind layers of shame. He took it all with a grateful heart, desperate for the taste of her, for the memory of her. How pathetic he was, to cling to so very little; how he wanted so much more.

He thought she almost mocked him with the way she went about her days. Practiced smile, gentile air, she was the very picture of a chaste lady. Children and elderly sought comfort in her as the war ragged and she organized the household with a steady hand. He felt pride in his success, attributed it to his skill at bringing out her natural talents, but the fact that she brushed him aside in the daylight, that she went about her affairs with no reminders of him, left him feeling bruised and bitter in an all too-familiar way. 

She wore nothing of him; he was rotten with her. 

For some time he managed to temper these feelings of anger, keeping them well-hidden behind a fine porcelain exterior. Sometimes he would catch Sansa watching him as if she was looking for the cracks in his facade, her brow furrowed as she was unable to find exactly what she was looking for. There was a pleasure to be found in that. He was not a fool, he knew he often gave too much of himself away, and to confound her for even a moment was a joy. Evidence of his anger and displeasure at the situation stayed hidden but the emotions still festered, primal thoughts unable to find their voice. 

He needed to devour her. He would not find peace until she wore him on her skin for days on end, marks that stood out on the pale flesh as reminders of who she belonged to. He no longer wondered if such a thought was _right_ , if he should be concerned with his desires. The concept of relief was far too enticing to intellectualize such a thing. 

When it happened it could not be said that Petyr planned any of it. Their evenings together, lovely and wanted things, had always had a sense of impulse behind them. He was liable to become lost to her quickly, acting on emotions that were more primal in notion, acting in a way he knew most others would find surprising for him. The need had been threatening to overtake for weeks; when it came spilling out it with was with nothing less than a sense of relief. 

He was above her, pressing into her with a rhythm that was well established. Sansa in these moments always seemed like someone entirely new, the woman underneath having little in common with the lady of the house. Her skin was flushed, her lips parted in an obscene manner, her legs curling about his slim frame as she tried to urge him on. She was a woman of want, the dark and unspoken need she had to be defiled taking her over, allowing her some of the freedom that she would never find in the light. 

The marks he had left on her until this point had been light, barely lingering on the surface, disappearing as soon as they were granted. The regret he would feel at these impermanent touches would be reserved only for when the act was done, and so it was not out of any bad feelings that he chose to strike. Rather it was the overwhelming need to _have her_ , her scent, the feel of her driving him wild, fanning some dark impulse in himself. It would not be until she left his bed at dawn that he would think of it at all, of this moment consumed only by his own wants. 

His lips found her shoulder, a position that was more than familiar. He pressed into her lightly, listening to her moans, judging her reactions. Her flesh was sweet in his mouth, the perfume she wore overwhelming his senses. In this moment he needed nothing more than for her to be his. 

He pressed down further, drawing a sharp gasp from her. His teeth sunk in as she pushed up, trying to keep him from ruining her skin with the likes of _him_ and he only fought back, until the skin broke like an overripe fruit, until there was blood in his mouth. 

It was only then that he pulled away, his mouth red. He licked his lips as he looked over his prey. She was sweeter than any wine, cooper and heady, something to be savor.  

Sansa’s eyes were wide with shock, her body pulled away from him just a bit, holding him at bay. The mark on her shoulder was bright against the pristine nature of her skin, a notable ruination. It was an angry red at this moment and he knew it would change, fanning out into a darker shade as the days passed, turning into a rich purple that was fit for a queen. 

And she was still wet, her body still chasing her need. She closed her eyes as she gave into it, as if she could not face it, rolling her hips as though nothing had happened. 

He smiled down at her, teeth stained; he wondered if she could read his expression through the darkness. 

When they broke their fast the next morning he noticed she had been forced to wear a high-neck dress, not exactly the Southern fashions that she so loved. When she caught his gaze, however, he did not sense any ill feelings in there, merely a bit of shame—moreso, he thought, due to her response than the mark itself. 

He piled his plate with food that day, devoured it with an appetite that had been starved for far too long. 


End file.
